


Betting Against the House

by Aviss



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviss/pseuds/Aviss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil should know better than to bet against Nick. </p><p>Or, the one where Fury has a heart and Coulson recruits Clint against his better judgement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Betting Against the House

"You like the kid," Coulson said stopping in front of the two way mirror and looking at the people in the other room.

The interrogation room was old, the wallpaper yellowed and peeling and the lone table in the middle covered in cigarette burns and scratches from years of abuse. Sitting with their backs to the mirror were two men in ill-fitting suits. One of them was balding and wider than he should be around the waist, the other was younger and built like a quarterback, his wide shoulders filling the suit jacket to the point of bursting. Their body language made it clear they were playing their version of good-cop-bad-cop. Coulson didn't find them very impressive.

Apparently, neither did the kid they were interrogating.

"He has potential," Nick Fury replied after a long silence, his eye never leaving the kid.

He was young, probably not a year over twenty five, but the lines on his face and the blankness in his eyes told Coulson he had probably been born old. Or maybe life had aged him prematurely. He was slouched on his seat, back slightly bent as if defeated, shoulders slumped. He had wide shoulders, and muscled arms that spoke of training, and not the gym kind. His hands were resting on his knees, completely still, and the only movement Coulson could detect in him was the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

It was a kind of stillness Coulson was familiar with, had seen in the front lines more than once.

"Sniper?"

He could almost hear Fury's lips twitching up in a smile before a folder was passed to him. "One of a kind."

Coulson took his eyes from the scene in front of him to look at the information Fury had given him. "Hawkeye?" he asked, his voice betraying his surprise. Fury's smile widened to the point of being almost visible.

The folder was one he had put together himself and sent to Fury for approval. It was made up mainly of rumors and confirmed kills, a bit of urban legend thrown in for good measure. It had taken Coulson the best part of six months to compile it, chasing leads and whispers, and had felt incredibly frustrated at his inability to attach a name or a picture to it. It seemed as if Hawkeye had sprouted, fully formed and deadly, from the minds of the big bosses of the underworld. An assassin who never missed, whose weapon of choice was untraceable, and whose only loyalty was to the paycheck he cashed for each target.

He looked at the kid again, his eyes sharper than before.  

It was difficult to reconcile the kid inside the room with the image Coulson had of Hawkeye. He had a body count in the triple digits, and had been active for seven years. If he was really the mercenary, and Coulson didn't doubt Fury's intel, though he had no idea how he had gotten it, then he had started killing when most people his age were starting college and partying like it was their job.

"You want to recruit him." It wasn't a question.

He closed the folder. It wasn't one that was ever supposed to get to HR, the THREAT - TERMINATION stamped in red on top of it made it very clear.

"His skill set is impressive."

Fury handed him another folder. This one Coulson hadn't seen before. The first page had a blurry picture of a much younger boy, though the wide shoulders and strong arms were there. There was a circus big top in the background, the name Carlson's barely visible. The name was familiar, and after a second he remembered why.

"We found some personal effects on Chisholm's truck last month," Fury said, and Coulson had been there when they'd taken down the bastard, but had not stayed for the cleanup. Maybe he should have. He took the next item in the folder and saw an old circus flyer, the words _'Meet the Amazing Hawkeye, world's best marksman!_ ' in bright purple over the picture of a young boy dressed also in purple and with a bow in his hand. "It took some digging, but we found all we needed." The next file was for one Clinton Francis Barton, age 7, and his brother Barney, age 10, orphaned and released into the care of the state. More files followed, a story told in foster homes and instability, and that ended with the brothers running away.

To join the circus, apparently.

"As tragic as his history seems to be," Coulson began, finally turning to look at Fury. "My recommendation stands. He's been too long in the wind, is too much of a threat to leave unchecked, and I don't think he'll want to come in."

"Ten bucks says he will."   

"So you want me to what? Give one of the deadliest assassins in our threat list the second chance speech? Bring him into the fold?" He gave Fury his most unimpressed look.  

"I don't think that kid ever got a first chance. And we can use him."

Coulson shook his head, half amused and half annoyed. "You're going soft, Nick."

Fury laughed at that. "I'm not. He let himself get caught this time. He could have run, gone to ground, but he's here. Also, I'm assigning you as his handler; you'll keep him in line."

He could hear what Fury wasn't saying. _And if I am wrong, you'll know what to do._

The noise of chairs scraping against the floor drew their attention back to the interrogation room, the two men apparently tired of their game were leaving the room. At the sound of the door closing, Barton moved for the first time, looking at the mirror, straight into Coulson's eyes. He took in his features for the first time, the dirty blond hair and the light scruff on his face, the nose apparently broken at least once, and the thin, unsmiling mouth. The most remarkable, though, were the eyes, blue-green and beautiful, and completely dead on his face.

"That's my cue," he said, putting on his blandest expression and brushing inexistent lint off his suit before leaving the room.

…

"Mister Barton, my name is Phillip Coulson, with Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, and I have an offer for you."

…

"This is going to blow up in our faces," Coulson said as he handed a ten dollar bill to his friend.

Nick laughed, putting it inside his pocket.

"And another twenty say it won't."

…


End file.
